Precursors: Kindred Minds
by Botosphere
Summary: Friendship!fic for Vivienne Grainger.  Ironhide, Optimus, and another "boring" night aboard the Ark wherein Prowl glitches, Jazz laughs, and Ratchet chucks wrenches.  Loosely ties in to "Tie That Binds."
1. Optimus and Ironhide

Author's Note: I blame Vivienne Grainger. We were talking about a quote at the beginning of "The Tie That Binds" which includes the phrase "Kindred Minds" and she issued me a challenge: write a friendship!fic with Optimus and Ironhide on a typical night (no catastrophes or heavy metaphysics to deal with). Somehow, this was the result. :)

If people like this ficlet, I might expand it beyond a one-shot and, if I do, future chapters will be a little more in the spirit of the prompt. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

In the eternal night of space, the Ark sped through the stars, carrying the hope of Cybertron with it as the Autobots sought the All Spark. By human reckoning, millennia had passed since the refugees aboard the Ark had last seen home, but more importantly for Optimus Prime, it had been thousands of years since he had last seen the being who was literally the other half of his soul.

He sat in his quarters, preparing a transmission to send to Cybertron and to his mate, Elita One. As the distance between his home and the ship grew, the lag between the cyber-mail arrivals also grew. At this point, they had to be in orbit around a star for a while before the transmission from his femme could catch up. It was convenient that the ship could recharge its systems while they waited.

A datapad lay on Optimus' desk, recording his dictation and transcribing it so he could edit it before sending. Lying on his berth to stare at the ceiling, the leader of the Autobots said, "We picked up the All Spark's signals again today. Perceptor has managed to triangulate the signal better, and we've narrowed it down to one of the arms of a spiral galaxy nearby. How the All Spark may have flown so far is anybody's guess, though we suspect a worm-hole. But far more important than that is the question of whether it's still there. That's the most frustrating thing about this entire endeavor. We might be homing in on a beacon that was captured by Decepticons many orbital cycles ago."

His door chimed, and Optimus paused in his dictation. "Come in."

Ironhide strode into the room, and Optimus gave his kin and self-appointed bodyguard a lop-sided grin. Their clan bond was dormant since their mates had remained on Cybertron, but Optimus still considered the grizzled warrior his friend and brother. "Welcome."

Ironhide grunted in answer. "Jazz is getting ready to send all the personal transmissions ahead of breaking orbit. Got yours ready?"

"Almost."

The weapons specialist grinned and snatched up the datapad from Optimus' desk. "Let's see what our fearless leader has to say to the troops back home."

Optimus made a grab for the datapad, but Ironhide – surprisingly agile for his size and age – jumped back and out of his reach. Hitting play, he smirked at the first few words.

"Dear spark, brighter than any star, I hope this finds you safe and well."

"You're talking up how bright her spark is?" 'Hide sniggered, waggling his optic ridges.

Optimus crossed his arms, glaring down at his subordinate. "That's mine."

"…your wisdom," the recoding continued, "I miss your strength, but mostly I miss having an equal. It might sound strange, but I miss having someone who'll put me in my place when I need it. And I most definitely need it."

Ironhide was positively gleeful at that. "You want a femme around to spank you, huh?"

Optimus rolled his optics, letting his hands fall to his side again. "More like spar with me. She never pulled any punches. Too bad Chromia's not around to beat you senseless when _you_ need it. Now hand that over!"

Opening a compartment on his arm, Ironhide defiantly dropped the datapad in.

Such defiance was not unheard of, especially from Ironhide, who tended to get a bit…unstable if he went too long without a chance to blast something or someone with his cannons. It happened to the best of them here on the Ark – it would to anyone who saw the same mechs day in and day out, went uncomplaining through the same routine, and saw the same view out the ports for dozens of vorns. The monotony was grating, even on Optimus, but the symptoms were worse with Ironhide.

He'd been fidgety, ill-tempered, trigger-happy, spoiling for a good battle – and now this. Optimus recognized it wasn't personal – Ironhide had been trying to pick a fight with everyone on board since long before they established orbit.

Raising an optic ridge, Optimus sifted through the Ark's vast memory storage, inappropriately using his command overrides on a personal quest. Finding what he wanted, he piped it through the speakers of his quarters. Ironhide's voice, rough with emotion, said, "Chromia, my berth is empty without you, and I had to let Ratchet – _Ratchet _– fine-tune my cannons yesterday."

The real Ironhide scowled. "Hey! Turn that off!"

Optimus just smirked as the recording played on. "Nobody takes care of 'em like you do, hot-spark. But you know what I _really _miss? You and me in the training room, battling like the fate of Cybertron itself rested on who won. I miss feeling sore in the morning after we've fought and 'faced each other senseless. Or better yet, I'd love to be side-by-side with you in a good firefight, blasting Decepticons to oblivion. I miss that 'job well done' feeling. There's not a 'bot on this ship I can really let loose with in a good brawl like that."

"Sounds like you're missing a femme to spank you, too."

Ironhide frowned, but before he could respond, Optimus lunged at him, catching him in a headlock. Ironhide struggled, landing several resounding blows on Optimus' side and back, but the bigger mech just dragged him out into the hall.

"LEMME GO, YOUNGLING!"

With a grunt of exertion, Optimus continued to drag his struggling friend through the halls of the Ark. "Not until I've put you in your place."

"YOUR PLACE IS A GREASE-SPOT ON THE TRAINING ROOM FLOOR, FRAGGER!" The weapons specialist tried kicking Optimus' foot out from under him.

Unfazed, Prime kicked him back and hauled him forward. "YOUR place, you mean!"

Furious, Ironhide brought his cannons online, and instinctively, Optimus' free hand transformed into his energon blade and he held it threateningly over his opponent's head. Both mechs froze, though, as two figures rounded the corner at a dead run – Jazz and Prowl.

Prowl blinked twice and keeled over as Jazz burst out in laughter. The black mech didn't say a word, just picked up Prowl's hands and retreated, dragging his prone friend behind him. His loud guffaws echoed as he continued down the side-hall.

"Now see what you did?" Optimus complained, though he was grinning behind his battle mask.

"What _I _did?" Ironhide growled, still struggling futilely as he was dragged down the hall. "You're the IDIOT who's making a RUCKUS!"

Optimus reached the elevator and, using his hip for leverage, swung Ironhide into the lift before pushing the button for the training level. He'd never admit it, but that kick to the back of his leg had left a few pinched wires that were already starting to sting. "Did you want a good fight with somebody or not?"

"With _you_?" Ironhide taunted, punching Optimus' back-strut again. "You wouldn't know what to do in a fight against me, CHIP-HEAD."

"You forget who my brother was," the bigger mech growled in answer, though he winced at the dings Ironhide was leaving up and down his back. "And I fought with him all while we were growing up."

"And he mopped the floor with ya! NOW LET ME GO!"

It was true – Megatron had won most of their sibling scuffles – but Optimus wasn't about to admit that, either. The lift doors opened, and Optimus strode forward, still hauling the flailing Ironhide. "I have no intention of letting you go until we're in a weapons-proof training room. The _last _thing morale needs is for you to blow a hole in the hull."

"The only thing I'll be aiming for is your SPARK and _I DON'T MISS_!"

"Tell that to Starscream," Optimus snarled, knowing that was a low blow but not particularly caring. The older mech had inflicted enough damage on him that Optimus was feeling well and truly angry – which had resulted in the headlock, which had in its own turn inflamed Ironhide. Elita had kept him humble, but without her around, he was worried that he might follow in his brother's footsteps. And apparently, Ironhide also needed to be taken down a peg or two.

Optimus grinned, thinking this little training session could be a _very _good thing.

The training room door opened, and Optimus tossed Ironhide in, finally releasing him from the headlock. Prime followed him in, and the door swished closed behind them.

Bellowing defiance, Ironhide charged right back at Optimus, catching him around the midsection and trying to slam him into the wall. Primus, but he was heavy! Optimus' solid fists pounded on Ironhide's helm, trying to get him to break off the attack.

Ironhide wedged his shoulder under Optimus' massive chassis and braced his feet on the deck, pushing up with all he had. Gears ground as Optimus struggled, Ironhide's strength and his own weight working against him.

Had this been in earnest, Optimus would have just whipped out an energon sword and decapitated his opponent, but since that wasn't an option – yet – he had to use less drastic measures. Bracing his own feet against the wall behind him and his hands on Ironhide's head and free shoulder, he lifted himself off Ironhide's pin and twisted, sending the slagger head-first into the wall.

Optimus scrambled to his feet, initial diagnostics confirming that Ironhide's stunt hadn't damaged anything near his spark.

Ironhide shook his head as he staggered to a standing position, trying to unscramble his processors. Grudging respect grew as his thinking cleared. Optimus was one of the few 'bots – mech or femme – who could break one of Ironhide's holds.

They circled each other warily, battle protocols active and sparks blazing. A fierce sort of pleasure filled them both, and while Optimus would be much more reluctant to admit it than Ironhide, it was only during times of personal combat like this that each of them felt truly_ alive_.

Knowing Ironhide would not back down, Optimus took a sudden stride forward, and as expected, Ironhide lunged, preemptively striking out. The bigger mech easily sidestepped the blow, but Ironhide whirled, clobbering Optimus with the other cannon, and the leader of the Autobots grimaced as something crumpled in his side. Most 'cons feared Ironhide for his firepower, but those cannons made effective melee weapons, too. The older mech's spark could have easily supported a frame as large as Optimus,' but Ironhide had opted for a smaller, more compact build, freeing up extra power for his cannons and for sufficient motor strength to handle his ridiculously heavy armor. When 'Hide landed a hit, a mech felt it.

If he was going to play dirty, he left Optimus no choice. His right hand transformed again into an energon blade – blunted this time and slightly bent at the tip.

Ironhide smirked. "Energon pry-bar, Prime?"

His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but Ironhide could hear the twin to his own smirk in Optimus' voice. "Just going to lighten your load, old mech. Gotta pull that cannon off to get to the datapad in your arm."

Annoyed, Ironhide began charging his cannons with a grunt, and Optimus lunged again. The pain in the Prime's side was aggravating, but he'd fought with worse damage. He caught Ironhide's arm and twisted – hard – ramming the older mech against the wall and holding him there with his side braced against Ironhide's torso. The cannon's anchor was heavily reinforced front to back to withstand the recoil, but was less sturdy along the shorter axis. Methodically, Optimus dug his improvised pry-bar into Ironhide's arm and forced open the compartment.

'Hide howled in pain and fury and beat Optimus over the head with his free cannon, snapping one of Optimus' antenna.

The Prime withstood the blows, doggedly intent on the datapad, transforming his blade back into fingers to snatch the precious piece of technology back. Ironhide continued to struggle, frustrating his attempts. Finally, with a fierce, frustrated growl, Optimus head-butted Ironhide in the face and sprang away.

The black mech let loose with a string of curses, covering his smashed nose with his uninjured hand.

It was one of 'Hide's few weak spots – vanity. Where other mechs used battle masks to protect their faces, Ironhide reveled in each scar and proudly left his face exposed in battle as a taunt to his enemies. Behind his own battle mask, Optimus grinned and he dropped the captured datapad into a compartment in his hip.

"Had enough, 'Hide?"

Fatal mistake – Optimus had forgotten that 'Hide's cannons were already charged and primed. The older mech wordlessly stretched out his good arm, and the concussion hit Optimus squarely in the face.

Optimus' auditory sensors registered Ironhide's footfalls, but his processors were too scrambled by the blast to do anything about it. Not for the first or last time, Optimus was glad that his mate was sister to Ironhide's. It forced the two mechs to maintain some level of civility – like stun-strength weapons fire.

"Had enough, youngling?" Ironhide rumbled.

In answer, Optimus' hand transformed into a glowing hook, and he swung up at the nearest available target – Ironhide's knee.

…

They staggered into the infirmary leaning on each other. Ironhide was cradling his left cannon, which was practically separated from his arm, and limping. Optimus was carrying a section of his hip armor in one hand and a crushed datapad in the other. Ratchet turned at the sound of their entrance and threw his hands up in exasperation. "_AGAIN_?"


	2. Jazz and Prowl

Author's note: As promised, "Kindred Minds" continues! :) Much less cracky this time and nobody exchanges any blows or weapons fire, though Jazz does menace Prowl's Prime. If you think my invented game of "Hexagons" is kind of like chess, you'd be right. And the scraplets are lifted wholesale from the new cartoon _Transformers:Prime,_ though the fall of Praxus is my own invention, as is the brotherhood between Prowl and Nightbeat.

* * *

Still chortling at the memory of Optimus and Ironhide ready to kill each other in the hallway, Jazz dragged Prowl to his own quarters, since they were closer than Prowl's. Long ago Ratchet had trained Jazz to reboot Prowl's processors after a logic glitch – mostly because Jazz caused or was present for most of them. He could have taken the time to reboot Prowl in the hallway, but he knew Prowl was embarrassed by the weakness in his processing and it eased some of that if Jazz was the only one present when the he came around.

Once the doors to his quarters were shut, Jazz considered the situation. Ratchet was going to be in a fine fit later, but Jazz personally enjoyed seeing Optimus and Ironhide going at it hammer and tongs, and he knew he wasn't alone. Shamelessly (but anonymously) tapping in to the Ark's surveillance systems, he routed the security footage through the all-comm command channel, broadcasting the fight to every mech on the ship. Only then did he begin the reboot sequence for his friend.

Jazz knew from experience that he didn't have a snowflake's chance in the Pit to haul Prowl up onto a chair or berth or other more-dignified position, so instead he shifted the prone mech so that his doorwings were more comfortable and placed a pillow under his head. When Prowl came around, Jazz knew he'd say the pillow was unnecessary. They both knew Jazz would shrug and answer that he was just being polite. They had worked side-by-side for ages and it was practically a script now. They knew each other almost as thoroughly as if they'd shared a brother bond.

Drawing two fuel rations from the dispenser – one for himself and one for Prowl when he finally finished rebooting – Jazz settled back into a chair and logged in to the broadcast of Prime's and Ironhide's brawl. Smokescreen was taking bets and Jazz placed two credits on Ironhide disabling Optimus first. He always rooted for the underdog.

…

::Reboot sequence complete. Initializing sensors.::

Prowl processed the data and brought his optics online. Instantly he knew where he was, partly because Jazz was lamenting loudly in the corner chair and partly because no other mech would have the glyphs for "Wake up!" painted on his ceiling in cheerfully-obnoxious yellow. Not even Bumblebee.

"Pillow?" Prowl said, truncating their usual conversation in these circumstances.

Jazz shrugged. "Polite."

Sitting up and tossing the pillow back onto Jazz's berth, he asked. "Do I even want to know?"

"Prime and Ironhide are at it again," Jazz answered, picking up the spare ration and handing it to Prowl. "We stumbled on them, and ya glitched. Guess the probability of them breaching the hull and killing us all was a bit much for ya."

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. "That or the glitch was triggered by the implications for rules enforcement if word got out that two of the senior-most officers were behaving like sparklings."

Jazz innocently grinned.

Prowl vented a martyr's sigh. "How much did you bet?"

"Two credits. I felt kinda bad for cleaning out Bumblebee last time. He always bets on Prime."

"And Prime won this time."

Jazz shrugged. "Smokescreen's calling it a draw. Ironhide concussed Optimus with a stun- strength blast, but he got to gloating and Prime ripped into him again. The only clear winner was Sideswipe – he bet that Ratchet would weld at least one of them to a repair berth."

Prowl drank his ration, considering. "Appropriate brig time for in-fighting is two to six orns."

"That's a long time," Jazz mournfully agreed.

"I think, considering the circumstances, I have to shorten their incarceration."

"That wouldn't look so good," Jazz pointed out, "ya cutting the brass some slack."

Prowl narrowed his optics at his friend. "Perhaps not, but every solar cycle they are in the brig is a solar cycle in which I must choose between supervising you or this ship."

Jazz chuckled at that. "Aw, come on Prowler, I'm not as bad as all that."

"Don't call me that," he snapped, true to their script. "You are and you know it. One orn in the brig, as soon as Ratchet releases them from med bay. Speaking of which," he said, rising to his feet, "I should get a prognosis from Ratchet and then shut down Smokescreen's gambling ring…"

"…again," Jazz cut in with a grin.

Prowl glared at him. "Yours will be the first fine."

"Already paid, Prowler."

With a curt nod, he set aside the empty ration cup and walked toward the door.

"Ya need me, ya know," Jazz cheekily told him. "We balance each other."

Prowl paused at the door and incredulously looked at him. "More like cancel each other out."

Jazz nodded, smirking ever so slightly. "We're still on for strategy games in the common room?"

"On your ration break," Prowl agreed. "Thanks to Prime's and Ironhide's antics, we'll be on opposite shifts." He stepped forward and the door automatically opened.

"You're welcome," Jazz said to his back.

"Thank you," Prowl grudgingly answered as the door swished closed.

…

As promised, Prowl and Jazz met on ration breaks every solar cycle for the following orn. After both of them had a cup of fuel in hand, they sat down on opposite sides of the three-tiered Hexagons board and resumed the game. Part of the draw for Prowl of playing against Jazz is he was so _unpredictable_. Even after playing together for so long, he would make a move that completely baffled Prowl. _And yet he still won_, despite the apparent lack of strategy. True, Prowl won _more_, but that was beside the point. Jazz was a challenge in every way.

This particular game had spanned the length of the orn. As usual, they played under the watchful gaze of whatever audience was in the common room at the time. Prowl instinctively knew Smokescreen had another gambling pool on who would win this one, but he postponed investigating it until after Optimus and Ironhide were released from the brig. In addition to his usual disciplinary and organizational assignments, he had to oversee intelligence processing, strategizing, training regimens, and supplies coordination.

That was the problem with locking up one's superiors – it doubled one's work. If it weren't for this game which required him to take a little time away from his duties, Prowl grudgingly admitted he probably would have starved himself or glitched several times by now.

It was Jazz's turn, and he stretched out his hand, moving a drone figurine, before lounging back in his chair. Prowl considered that drone carefully. Jazz had placed it right in the path of his femme commander figurine – the most versatile and dangerous piece on the board. One did not sacrifice any piece without a purpose, but none of the strategies Jazz had hinted at in his game-play involved this drone. So why draw his femme commander to that particular hexagon? Prowl studied first one tier and then the next, pondering the configurations on the boards until finally he saw it. A warrior and fortress on the top and bottom tiers respectively were closing in on his Prime and only the femme commander would be able to break up the attack. But Jazz had sprung his trap prematurely. He could move his Prime out of danger, but only at the cost of his femme commander. Or perhaps it was a feint. It was also possible that Jazz himself wasn't aware of the strength of his position – that occasionally happened, too. Prowl would see strategies where there were none.

Prowl leaned back in his chair, studying the unreadable visor of his opponent instead of the game. He had discerned long ago why Jazz was so good at Hexagons. Like Prowl, he saw patterns. In even the most chaotic systems, patterns emerged for those who were patient enough to look. As Prime's chief strategist, it was Prowl's responsibility to find patterns in the chaotic flow of a firefight or a string of battles and to manipulate them to their advantage. Prowl _made _order out of chaos.

But Jazz _created _chaos on the game boards _and_in real life. Prowl strongly suspected he did so because that was the only way he could see the patterns. In a structured system, the patterns were too obvious for Jazz sometimes. And so Hexagons was where their two worlds intersected – it was where chaos and structure were in balance and both had a fighting chance against the other.

The ambush for his Prime was secondary, Prowl decided, and again he studied the tiers. There was another pattern here, a thread of thought and strategy that was behind Jazz's move. He _would _unravel it.

Jazz knew that look, and it was never a good sign for his chances of winning when Prowl wore that expression. Few mechs would have noticed the difference, the change in his faceplates, but Jazz did. It was a probing look. It was the clear vision that saw to the spark of anything and anyone. It saw through the cloak and zeroed in on the dagger.

"Any orn now, Prowler," Jazz casually prompted.

"Don't call me that," he answered absent-mindedly.

Jazz smirked despite himself. Of course Prowl wouldn't be distracted that easily. Jazz had never met a mech or femme he couldn't make laugh or at least chuckle, but not Prowl. He was cold – as cold and logic-driven as a sparkless drone, some said.

But Jazz knew better. He was one of the few mechs still online who knew why Prowl was the way he was. Prowl was from Praxus. That knowledge alone was enough reason for Prowl's quirks in most mech's processors. But Jazz knew it went even deeper than that. Jazz was there when Prowl's fate was decided. He silently stood by and watched as Prowl made the choice that would forever mangle and scar his spark.

Waiting for Prowl to make his next move on the Hexagons board, Jazz lapsed into memory. It was early on in the War, and all of Praxus – peacekeepers, commerce clans, and scientists – had risen up in defiance against the Decepticons. They had built a prototype forcefield over the entire city, and while they couldn't keep it up indefinitely, they were able to fend off no less than four attacks. Emboldened by Praxus' defiance, protesters took to the streets in cities all over Cybertron, and Prime himself was hopeful that, if enough mechs and femmes stood up for freedom and peace, Megatron would acquiesce or at least open negotiations.

Prowl's brother Nightbeat was in the thick of it – he had once been commander of Praxus' peacekeepers. He showed up late one night at Optimus' base, eager to report in person the city's allegiance to the Prime. The news was met with cheers, but Nightbeat wouldn't stay for the party. Out under the night sky, he told Jazz and his brother, "I'm needed in the city. Come home with me, Prowl. Tomorrow Praxus will lead Cybertron to peace. Don't you want to be a part of that?"

"I will join you soon. Optimus relies heavily on me, but when he comes to Praxus, I will be the first mech through the gates."

Nightbeat nodded. "Until then, brother."

"Until then."

When he was out of hearing range, Jazz murmured to Prowl, "Something's not right here."

"Yes. That is why I have counseled Optimus not to go to the city yet."

"Ya didn't warn him?" Jazz asked, incredulously gesturing in the direction Nightbeat had gone.

"I have. Repeatedly. He assures me that he will survive whatever the Decepticons throw at him. Half the clan temporarily left the city the first time I urged them to, but still Praxus stands. I now have a reputation for being…overly cautious. None of them will leave now."

The next morning, Starscream and his trine were welcomed into the fortified city as emissaries of peace. They met with the city's leaders (including Nightbeat), discussed terms, rejected them, and left. On their way out, they released hundreds of small, harmless-looking drones that scattered when shot at. Everyone assumed the drones were either for espionage or sabotage and the peacekeepers were tasked with hunting them down and destroying them.

That night the slaughter began.

The drones were something far more horrific than mere spies. They were devourers that hunted in swarms. Anything metal attracted them – especially living metal – and they greedily consumed circuits and energon lines, reducing living mechs and femmes to scrapped armor in a matter of astroseconds. When they breached a spark, all of the drones in contact with the energy surge duplicated. A few hundred drones became tens of thousands overnight. And just as the forcefield kept the surrounding Decepticon armies out, it kept the devouring drones in.

After a solar-cycle and a half of decimating casualties from the scraplets (as the drones came to be known), the desperate citizens of Praxus dropped the shield. However, the Decepticons held back. The Autobots would later learn that the self-destruct subroutine built into the drones malfunctioned in about 1% of the duplicates. The Decepticons could not enter the city without risk to themselves, and so they vigilantly patrolled the city's perimeter, gunning down both Praxians and scraplets who tried to escape.

Through his brother-bond with Nightbeat, Prowl saw it all. He felt the gnashing wounds inflicted on his kin. He was torn by the recoil over his clan bonds as spark after spark succumbed to both the drones and Decepticons. Only the experimental (and imperfect) Autobot battle protocols prevented Prowl's and Nightbeat's death from the loss of their entire clan in two solar-cycles' time, but more vicious than any scraplet, the guilt devoured Prowl. Jazz stood by him in the medbay during the fall of Praxus and heard his half-fragmented and spark-wrenching cries.

The only time during those dark cycles in which Jazz left Prowl's side was to go in search of Mirage. On Jazz's orders, the young mech ventured into Praxus. They weren't sure if his cloak would conceal him from the scraplets or not, but Mirage took the risk anyway. By the time the noble reached the ruined city, only one of Prowl's kin were still online: a youngling not much older than Bumblebee. To protect him from the recoil of so many extinguished kin, Nightbeat had put the youngling in stasis and carried him as they tried to evade the scraplets. As his final act, Nightbeat buried him in crystals in a secluded garden. Some of the Praxians had discovered that the crystals disrupted the scraplets' sensors, warping the distinctive protoform's readings. The scraplets got to Nightbeat before he could bury himself in the crystals, too, severing Prowl's final bond.

Mirage found the youngling, a mech named Bluestreak, and carried him all of the way to Optimus' base. They didn't dare to bring him out of stasis until after they had uploaded battle protocols for him.

Bluestreak was the only true survivor of Praxus. Others had hidden in the city's various crystal gardens, but those who escaped the scraplets were slaughtered by Decepticons.

In the present, Prowl's doorwings raised slightly and Jazz knew he'd lost the Hexagons game. Prowl didn't grin – at least, not on his face – he smiled with his doorwings. Jazz saw the slight twitch and lift that was practically gloating from the otherwise-unreadable mech. "Yield!"

Looking back at the game board, Jazz saw that Prowl's temple guardian had his Prime boxed in and trapped. With a heavy sigh at the dark memory, Jazz tipped over the Prime figurine, acknowledging defeat. "I surrender."

And Prowl, who appeared as cold as a drone after his spark was so marred by loss, caught the weary tone in Jazz's voice. Compassion filled him; at least he still had Bluestreak. Jazz was the very last of his clan or even his clan's kin, and only remembering the loss of kin could bring that kind of pain to the unquenchable Jazz. "A rematch, whenever you're ready," Prowl offered.

And almost as if it were part of the script, Jazz understood what Prowl was really saying: I heard that and I know you're suffering and I want to make it right but I don't know how to and _nobody _knows how to anymore so the only thing I can do is take control of the things within my grasp and maybe provide a little distraction now and then so _please _take me up on it because I have to do _something_for you because you're my brother-in-arms and the closest thing to a brother I have left.

The only real difference between Prowl and Bluestreak, Jazz mused, was that Prowl was more efficient. Out loud, he said, "You're on, Prowler. Tomorrow's first ration break."

"Don't call me that, and I'll see you then. You're late for the second half of your shift."

"Don't tell the boss-bot," Jazz retorted with a jaunty grin and headed up to the bridge.


End file.
